Do Not Claim That Which You Know to Be False

To state what one knows to be false is to mortgage one’s integrity for a fleeting comfort. A single lie may seem trivial, but it imposes a lasting cost upon the liar. He must remember what he said and to whom, maintain a fragile lattice of consistency, and shield the falsehood from scrutiny. In doing so, he exchanges simplicity for strain, and clarity for complication.

The burden is not only internal. Reputation, once eroded by the discovery of deceit, corrodes all future utterances. Even the truth, spoken by a known liar, is met with doubt. The man who guards his honesty secures for himself a rare privilege: his words carry weight. The claims he makes are believed, reassurances trusted, denials respected. This is the compound interest of truthfulness.

Even so-called ‘white’ lies, often justified as kindness, invite suspicion in their wake. A loved one, deceived for comfort, may later question every proffered comfort. Better to speak truth gently than to bury it beneath the dishonesty of compassion.

Yet no principle exists in isolation from reality. There are circumstances in which to tell the truth would be to abandon duty. In such cases, deception is not a betrayal of principle but an act of protection, a lesser principle usurped by a greater, compelled by the gravity of the moment.

But such exceptions are rare. In ordinary life, truthfulness is the cleaner path. It demands no upkeep, no performance, no fear of contradiction. One need only speak what one knows to be true—or else say nothing. One may guard truth through silence; there is rarely need to corrupt it through speech.